


Dust to Dust

by returntosaturn



Series: Blue Ribbon [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:26:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returntosaturn/pseuds/returntosaturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He leaned forward on the table, wrinkling the tablecloth with his elbows. 'Look, Queenie. You’re new to this game, so let me fill you in on how it works.'"</p><p>Haymitch and Effie from the 65th Hunger Games onward. Eventual Hayffie, other characters appear as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This is the second installment of my series that began with Blue Ribbon. I suppose you could read this without reading the first one. Details from that will only come into play later, but this starts right where Blue Ribbon left off, with Effie meeting Haymitch in District 12 for the first time. I believe I had written in that one that Effie was twenty-six-which, if both Haymitch and Effie were sixteen at the time of the 50th Hunger Games, would make it the 60th Games. But I'd really like to include Chaff, Finnick, and Johanna in this one so I'd like to spring forward a bit, and we'll just pretend I ended with the start of the 65th Games, making them both thirty-one. Not that any of this is terribly important.
> 
> Read on, and I hope you enjoy.

_The 65th Hunger Games_

-O-O-O-

The first thing that aggravated her about him was the way he was so heavy handed with everything, scraping through the ice bucket nosily—with his fingers—while she attempted conversation with their new tributes. The bottles on the bar clanked and jittered under his filthy, hairy hands as he mixed a drink for himself—certainly not his first for the day and not the last. 

He plopped into the chair beside her, bringing with him the stench of liquor and sweat that had clouded him at his doorstep hours before when she first met him. And still he wasn’t finished with his noise. He picked up a magazine, flipping through it so raucously that she had to flinch at the thought that he might rip one of the glossy pages. Eventually, he grew bored and tossed it aside, now tapping his boot against the floor repetitively, swirling the ice in his glass.

Eventually she grew so frustrated with their lack of words and his incessant noise that she gave up completely, smiling politely and retiring to her cabin.

At dinner, it was the way he scraped his teeth over his fork, if he used a fork at all.

Observing the children, she found that their etiquette wasn’t much better. Perhaps it was the norm in District 12 to have horrific table manners.

Politely, she set down her soup spoon and cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should all review about what proper table manners are in the Capitol, yes? After all, these next few days will be very important to you, and you’ll want to impress others. Now, Hanna,” she said, addressing the girl. “You’re using the wrong spoon for your lamb stew. It’s this one. It’s all very easy to remember, you see. Because you use the silverware on the outside first and work you way inward, understand?”

She felt Abernathy’s grey eyes weighing heavily on her.

“And Kale, your napkin is folded wrong.” She lifted her own napkin from her lap to show him, and was nearly about to explain when Haymitch snatched up his own napkin from his knee and tossed it onto his plate.

He excused himself from the table—or rather, didn’t—and stomped to the door of the car, disappearing wordlessly.

Effie cleared her throat again. “Well…” She looked up at her tributes, both staring back at her with frightened, sullen faces. Kale even looked to be a bit offended. They couldn’t care less about her spiel on manners. She huffed, folding her napkin back into her lap. “Forgive Haymitch,” she asked quietly. “I do apologize for his behavior.”

She bent her head over her soup once more, taking tiny, dainty bites. She noticed Hannah was attempting to do the same.

In her room that evening, she’d shed a few tears as she tugged the pins from her wig, only for what a brute Haymitch had been, how he’d embarrassed her. How awful it was that she’d been stuck with this District and this…man, if he could be called such. She could only think of the laughingstock she would become to her peers, to the Capitol. After all, everything about the Games was so public. It would be sooner rather than later that they would get to see Haymitch drunkenly stumbling over himself as she tried to hold the whole act together. It hadn’t even been 24 hours yet, and Effie was already dreading the next two weeks.

-O-O-O-

At breakfast, he stumbled in, falling over his own bare feet and sporting ratty, worn pajamas that weren’t any cleaner than the outfit he’d worn the day before. Honestly. Didn’t he have the decency to dress himself—how ever sloppily—before presenting himself?

Effie tried not to sigh over her toast.

He tried to assert some advice to Kale and Hanna, but Effie was sure they couldn’t possibly retain any of his slurred, muffled words. She suggested they wash up before their arrival to the Capitol, and the two filed out of the car.

“Honestly,” she began. “Its not even nine in the morning, and you’re already soused. Is this going to be any everyday occurrence?”

She was being rude, but at this moment, it was necessary.

“Is the pitch of your voice that obnoxious every time you speak?” he shot back, bringing a hand to his head.

She scoffed. “Well I never…” 

He waved her off, slouching deep into his chair. 

“At least put on something _clean_ before we arrive. You do have clean clothes don’t you?” She hadn’t meant to sound so patronizing, like he was a filthy animal, but when he dug one finger into the jam on the table, she thought twice.

“Of course, I do, Princess,” he said, licking his finger clean and leaning forward to take another swipe. But she snatched the jar out of his reach. 

She held it reverently between her hands, as if rescuing the poor jar of orange marmalade from his sticky fingers had been a noble deed. She glared down at him, daring him to make one more rude, crude, or socially unacceptable gesture. He didn’t. 

Instead, he threw her icy glare right back at her.

He leaned forward on the table, wrinkling the tablecloth with his elbows. “Look, Queenie. You’re new to this game, so let me fill you in on how it works. We don’t make the kids feel special, and we damn sure don’t make them feel like this is some sort of privilege. If I need to remind you, Twelve never wins. So we bring ‘em in, let them know their odds, and let ‘em loose to be slaughtered . That’s what everyone wants to see anyways, right?” He smiled mockingly. He reached over to pat her lace-covered hand. 

“Mr. Abernathy, I assure you that I most certainly am not _new_ at this game, as you call it. I’ve had my training in the Academy, and I graduated with the top of my class, I’ll have you know. Furthermore, the Games are indeed a privilege…to be able to enjoy…”

Haymitch cut her off, waving a hand unsteadily.

“One, if you graduated with the top of your class, what the hell are you doing working with District 12?” he said, making her lips pout and her eyebrow arch. “And number two…have you ever participated in a Reaping?” he asked.

“Well of course I have…”

“No. Have you ever,” he spoke slowly, “had your name drawn? Entered, even?”

“Of course not,” she answered, clinging more tightly to the jar still in her hands where the glass was growing slick against her palms.

“Then, you wouldn’t really know what the Games are like, would you?” he said darkly. He held her gaze for several more moments before standing. He snatched up an apple from the bowl at the center of the table. “I suggest,” he said, waving it towards her, “that you stick to your parties, your clothes, and your…” He gestured to her bright orange wig. “…stupid hair. Stay completely out of my way and out of my business, and we’ll get along just fine, got it Princess?”

He sunk his teeth into the fruit, spraying her with a few droplets of the juice before stalking out of the car the way the children had exited.

-O-O-O-

The children were taken in with their prep teams to be bathed, plucked, and perfected. This left Haymitch and Effie to natter with the other escorts, mentors, and sponsors. Effie was not above lying, making up sweet stories about Hanna’s curious and friendly disposition, how she’d glowed in delight upon seeing the Capitol’s brightly colored buildings and streets. Really, nothing about Hanna let on that she was anything other than an afraid little girl. But anything to help the cause, Effie would do. 

She’d met up with two of her good friends. Olivia, the District 4 escort, and Lucilia, who acted as an executive in the Training Center, organizing and readying the apartments before the tributes arrived. The two were twins, and nearly exactly identical. Effie could only just tell Olivia apart because of the time they’d spent together in the Academy. 

“And then Ella and I…” she was saying, her hands gesturing before her until Haymitch bumped his way into their circle, already holding a squatty glass of amber liquid.

“Good God, there’s three of you,” he said unkindly, smiling.

“Two,” Olivia prissed, poising a hand on her hip.

“Effie comes as a bonus,” Lucilia teased, and Effie laughed until Haymitch interjected lowly, “How unfortunate.”

Effie pursed her painted lips. “Is something the matter, Haymitch?” she asked politely, though in an attempt to shoo him away.

“Not anymore,” he said, hoisting his glass proudly. “I’ve got the _privilege_ of Capitol liquor, haven’t I?” he said, smirking at her. “There aren’t many entertaining people to talk to around here. At least until Chaff or the morphlings arrive.” He chuckled to himself at his own joke, but the ladies stared at him unchangingly. 

“Well…” he said, letting out a breath of bourbon. “Don’t you three just look like…” He gestured to Olivia and Lucilia’s matching feathered outfits. “Chickens ready for plucking…or something that sounds like it.”

Olivia gasped, but Lucilia snickered behind her hand. Effie gawked and grabbed for his elbow, steering the drunkard away from her friends.

She jeered up at him. “Didn’t we agree that we would stay out of each other’s way?”

He reached up, teetering close to her, his malodorous breath filling her nostrils. “You lost an earring.”

She clutched her right earlobe.

“And yes, we did. I just found this on the floor.” He held up the bright green gemstone earring, twisting it between his fingers. When she reached for it, he snatched his hand away.

“But on second thought,” he said, tucking it into the pocket of his trousers. “You were right, of course. We should stay away from each other.”

“You give that back,” she demanded. She nearly stamped her foot, making Haymitch chuckle.

He shrugged indifferently. “Make me,” he said childishly, bringing his glass to his lips before sauntering away into the crowd of mentors.

She steamed, her face growing hot as she watched his back. Olivia and Lucilia appeared at her flanks, and finally she let herself bubble over. “Oh, that…brute!” she huffed, turning to Olivia. 

Lucilia hummed, gazing after him. “He’s not so horrible, really.”

“He’s dreadful!”

“Poor Effie,” Olivia sighed dramatically, patting the giant flower on her friend’s shoulder.


	2. Chapter 2

After the parade, Effie corralled them all into the penthouse for dinner. The costumes had been tacky, and though she tried to find some redeeming quality in the coal miner’s uniforms, they were bland and boring and certainly forgettable. Despite her efforts, not a single sponsor had been convinced to support them.

The children went to their rooms to wash up for dinner. Before Effie could ask an Avox to do it, Haymitch had already plucked the corkscrew from the table setting and popped open the bottle of wine. 

“Ah. A wonderful idea,” she said, choosing two clean glasses. She placed them on the table before him, expecting him to pour courteously, but instead he snatched up the glasses, dirtying them with fingerprints, and poured quickly, letting the red liquid slosh in his glass to more than half full. When he poured her own, she swiftly instructed him where to stop.

“Thank you,” she said nicely, swirling the liquid. She cleared her throat after one tart—yet satisfying—sip and spoke. “I think we’ve gotten of on the wrong foot, you and I. I would like to agree to be civil towards one another. Could we manage that?” she asked.

He just nodded, taking a gulp.

Effie was beginning to get the idea that Haymitch could be compliant with almost anything if he had alcohol in hand.

“Wonderful. I’d like my earring back, if you don’t mind.”

He smirked over the rim of his glass and was nearly about to speak when the children joined them again.

After dinner and after the children were sent to bed, she perched herself on the sofa, clipboard in hand, scribbling furiously at names of sponsors she needed to contact, and others that had already turned her down. She huffed, brushing a pink curl over one shoulder. This was hopeless. 

“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Haymitch called from the hallway, making her jump.

She spun over one shoulder, a hand to her chest. “Oh! You frightened me! I thought you were sleeping.”

He seemed to find that funny, and flounced out into the sitting room, a bottle of clear liquid in hand. She noticed his jacket and vest had been removed, leaving him in a wrinkled button down and his trousers. He was bare-foot, of course. But then, so was she. The tall, grape colored heels she’d donned that day were abandoned neatly nearby.

He stood over the back of the couch, peering over her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asked, gesturing to the clipboard in her lap.

“Preparing the schedule for tomorrow. And…” She sighed. “Trying to work a tactic to get sponsors.”

He snorted. “There ain’t no sponsors for Twelve. Ever. We’re a lost cause, Peaches.” He shuffled around the sofa slowly.

“Perhaps,” she said dejectedly, “But I intend on putting forth all the effort I can…to help them in every way I can.” She set her pencil down when Haymitch sat on the opposite end of the couch. She finally let herself deflate, letting out a heavy breath. “Hanna is so frightened. It makes me…upset for her.”

“So you’re acting on self-interest, then?” Haymitch nearly snarled.

She glanced at him. “What an awful thing to say.”

He shrugged, taking a swig from his bottle.

“Why do you drink so much?” she asked, her tone almost scathing. Why had he come out here to bother her anyways?

He pointed at the high-heels at the end of the lounge. “Why do you wear such stupid shoes?”

“They aren’t stupid. They’re fashionable,” she defended, completely missing his point.

He snorted and lifted his feet to the coffee table between them.

Silence settled for a few more moments before she spoke. “I remember your games.”

He didn’t respond. 

“It was the first year I was able to attend parties by myself, to drink. And I thought you were very good, of course.” She had meant it to be a compliment, but it came out hackneyed and unweighted. 

She cleared her throat, glancing back down at her clipboard and worrying herself with her work once more. Within the half-hour, she was drowsy and rose from her seat. Haymitch had already fallen asleep, slouching along the length of the sofa.

Tentatively, she rounded the table and reached for his shoulder. When she shook him awake, he sprang up with a shout, sloshing his bottle and slashing at her with one open hand. He caught her arm in a vice grip, forcing her to the floor.

“Its me, its me!” she squeaked, putting one arm over her face in defense. When she peeked up at him, his face was close, his eyes dark as gunmetal. 

After a few seconds, he seemed to come to himself, though the storm behind his eyes didn’t leave.

Wordlessly, he released her and stepped over her. He shuffled noisily to his room, leaving her there, bent on the floor without an answer or explanation.

-O-O-O-

The next morning, she was left alone mostly. Haymitch, Hanna, and Kale had gone off to train, leaving her free to talk with sponsors. She was entertaining a group of attractive young men, not above flirting, when a familiar face caught her eye.

His jet black hair had been swept back in a different style, and his beard was small and neatly clipped around his chin. But his green eyes were no less stunning than when they’d been sixteen, young, and heedless. He floated over to her, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek.

“Effie, gorgeous as always,” he said.

She smiled kindly. “Wonderful to see you again, Seneca.”

The men around her filtered away, leaving them alone at the center of the crowded room.

“Your tributes seem very promising,” he said, an attempt at a compliment. “At least, the boy does. He’s strong. The girl…the girl is very…skittish. I had the privilege of watching them this morning.”

Effie blinked at the word ‘privilege.’ She was beginning to grow tired of that word.

“Yes, Kale is quite strong. Charming as well,” she said, swirling the liquid in her glass.

But Seneca laughed. “You don’t have to convince me that I should support them, Effie darling. It would be my pleasure to do so.”

“Oh,” she said. “You would?”

“Absolutely. As a favor to an old flame.”

She wasn’t sure if she should’ve been offended by his comment, but she didn’t show it. 

“I could promise that the payments be bit a larger if you would agree to dinner with me,” he offered coyly.

She laughed, flashing a smile. She glanced around the room filled with people, hoping that no one had overheard. “Now Seneca, what kind of woman do you take me for?”

“We were wonderful together,” he said.

“Yes, we were. Fifteen years ago.” She was trying to be as polite as possible. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I simply must be off. They’ll be returning from training soon, and you know this evening is very important. Caesar will not be kept waiting. Ta ta, Seneca.”

She hustled away, moving as quickly as she could in her heels. In the elevator, Haymitch was ushering the children inside, and before she could hold herself together, she snapped.

“Upstairs to shower, both of you,” she said more forcefully than she might’ve liked, pressing the button for the penthouse. “And you, not a spot of drink for you this evening. And honestly, wear a clean shirt.”

Haymitch only looked amused. Kale and Hanna gawked. Finally, she collected herself and sighed. “Forgive me. That was very rude of me. I only want us to be on time for the interviews. We’ve got a big evening ahead of us, and we want to impress.”

She turned to face the doors, composing herself for the long evening ahead.

-O-O-O-

The tributes conducted themselves as well as could be expected for the interviews; Effie had had so little time to prep them. She insisted they rest for the final day of training, sending them off to bed early.

Haymitch had left, presumably off to a bar or some other seedy establishment for the evening. She put an Avox in charge of watching the children and ventured out on her own with Ella Heavensbee.

She returned with her worries drowned in brightly colored cocktails, quite calm and relaxed after the events of the day. She had discussed Seneca’s assertion with Ella, and Haymitch’s complete lack of propriety. Still, she had not reached a decision. Was it ethical to revisit silly teenage memories at the expense of the children? Just to get them medicine, food, or water? 

Before the elevator doors closed, before it had time to whisk up to the penthouse, a grimy hand pressed between them, forcing them back open. Haymitch stumbled inside, wet with liquid down his front and boots untied.

He smirked up at her. “Oh, hello there, doll.”

She scoffed impudently, turning her face away. “You’re quite a sight,” she said, disgusted.

The elevator closed and chimed, rising. It scaled the floors slowly. Too slowly for Effie’s liking.

“I could say the same about you. Your dress looks like vomit,” he snarled.

He face snapped in his direction. “At least I don’t smell like it.”

He leaned closer, smiling stupidly. “Ooh. What happened to your manners, honey?” Before she could wrench away he had her pressed against the glass wall of the elevator, breathing hot against her cheek. She turned her face away.

“Perhaps someone needs to boss you around for a change,” he whispered.

He was off of her as soon as her hand clapped against his face. The sound hung heavy in the small space of the elevator.

“You filthy…!” she began, edging past him once the doors opened. She stood between them, barring his exit. “You filthy…louse!” she exploded, a better insult lost on her lips. She marched off furiously to her bedroom, leaving him laughing and stumbling behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

She let Seneca take her to dinner just a few days into the Games. Kale had been slowed by an infection, but luckily he was far enough away from the other tributes that Effie had time to get Crane’s signature on an invoice for a parachute.

She was dressed in a ruffled red gown, lace gloves and red lace stockings. Seneca had told her again how beautiful she looked, which she supposed she preferred to being told she resembled vomit, even coming from him. 

“Thank you,” she answered over the rim of her wine glass.

“You wore red the night of the party,” he said. “When I almost asked you out the first time. Do you remember?”

She did. “Yes. I remember.”

“I would like to have you back, Effie, you know that.” He pressed his hand to hers over the table.

She sighed. “Seneca…”

“Is it so difficult, Effie? Let’s not pretend we both don’t know why you’re here,” he said, staring her down with knowing eyes. “I can’t blame you. If I had one tribute killed within the first ten seconds of the game, I’d be desperate for sponsors too.”

Effie swallowed. Hanna hadn’t even made it outside of the circle of pedestals. 

“Your motive for our meeting doesn’t bother me. I’ve finally gotten you alone, and I only want to try to make good on what went so wrong before,” he said.

“Please,” she answered, becoming upset. “Don’t. Your help is enough. I didn’t come here to pawn you out of money, and nor do I mean to betray your feelings, but…” She wasn’t even sure if she believed half of what she was saying. She only knew she wanted to leave.

Seneca caught on, and relented. “I’ll call you a cab, then,” he said, fishing for his checkbook in the pocket of his trousers.

-O-O-O-

In the morning, the mentors, escorts, and several sponsors gathered as usual in the viewing room. Haymitch came barreling in, a twinkle in his eyes. He grabbed Effie’s wrist, eliciting a gasp from her.

“Excuse you!” she exclaimed, perfectly balancing her glittering cocktail.

“Hey, powderpuff. There’s somebody I want you to meet.” He drug her forward roughly, nearly making her trip over her heels. 

She brushed his hand off, re-fluffing the sleeve he’d crushed with his meaty fingers.

The man he introduced as Chaff was tall and of a bulky build, all round and heavy. He extended a hand to Effie, her lost earring pinched between two fingers.

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she said. “I’ve been wondering where that had gone.” She threw a look at Haymitch who only looked pleased.

When she reached for it, the hand that held it came tumbling ungracefully from Chaff’s sleeve, thumping against the ground and making Effie squeal in fear. Haymitch and Chaff guffawed, bracing themselves on one another’s shoulders. It was only them that Effie realized the hand was taken from a mannequin in the training room, a cruel joke the two men had concocted. The stump that was Chaff’s real arm was hidden beneath his coat sleeve. An eerie, handless dangle with no volume to fill it.

She smacked Haymitch’s shoulder with her pocketbook, telling him just how awful she thought the trick was. He only laughed back at her.

“Well!” she exploded. “I should tell you that Kale has gotten a sponsor. He’s gotten the medicine he needs.”

“Well done, powder puff. Getting his hopes up just like I always knew you would,” he said bitterly.

She huffed and marched back over to the sofa to get away from him and his equally as awful friend.

-O-O-O-

The medicine had not helped. Kale was dead by nightfall. The infection had gotten too far out of hand and he had not reached water. She and Haymitch had been in their viewing room in the penthouse at the time.

Haymitch didn’t move from his spot, not even really glancing up at the screen where Caesar was announcing the dead tributes.

Effie just hung her head in shame.

“I could stop it,” she said. “I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t control it.” 

She hadn’t wanted a response. She was speaking to herself, but he felt the need to interject anyways.

“Surprise, surprise.”

“I suppose I should go and talk with Seneca,” she said, rising from her seat.

Beneath the click of her heels against the stone floor, there was a beat of silence.

“Seneca Crane?” Haymitch said darkly.

She turned over her shoulder. “Yes. Kale’s sponsor.”

His lips curled into a slow, nasty-looking smile. He swirled the liquid in his glass, gazing at it almost affectionately. 

“Oh.” His tone was different now. Almost chipper. “Is that who sent the medicine? You screwing sponsors now? Is’at a new tactic?” He sneered.

“How dare you,” she said, flabbergasted.

“Just stating the facts, sweetheart.”

She stood a little taller, taking three quick strides to the couch where he was sprawled. “You wouldn’t know what’s fact and what’s not.”

“I have eyes, sister,” he said, daring her to further the argument.

“Seneca and I…did not…sleep together.”

He chuckled. “No, you just pawned him out of money by prettyin’ up your words, and I guess you could say you prettied up your face. Pretty difficult, I’d say.” He nearly recoiled from her in disgust. 

She bowed her head, and swallowed. She wiped at a tear dripping down her cheek, hoping he hadn’t seen it. 

“Now you’re gonna cry?” He laughed. “Ain’t no use crying at your own foolishness, darling.”

“I’m not crying because of that,” she said softly, glancing away from him, trying to imagine he’d left the room.

“Yeah. You’re crying because I hurt your feelings. Get used to it.” He shifted to stand, slouching over his glass of bourbon.

“I’m crying because two young people are dead,” she exploded. “And I tried everything I could to keep them alive, but I couldn’t even stop it. Why do we even have sponsors, Haymitch? To give them a false hope? To make them think they might have a chance at winning, just for them to get slaughtered? Everyone’s acting like its alright.”

“So did you, before you got this job. What makes a difference now?” he said. 

She squeezed her eyes shut from the flood of tears, feeling her false purple eyelashes fall limp.

“Because I knew them.”

Haymitch laughed, reeling forward. “You didn’t know them. You think you knew them. You made up an image of them in your mind. And now your false image is shattered by false motive. You were never helping to save them, Trinket. You were helping them die.”

He waded past her, his heavy feet thumping against the marbled tile. She sniffled, bringing a gloved hand to her cheek, wiping at the moisture there. He was right. It was all a game, and they were all pawns. And after what she’d done to Seneca, even at Kale’s sake, she had to admit she was the worst.

-O-O-O-

Haymitch had gone home on the first train the next morning. She’d turned in her key to the penthouse, leaving the Training Center for another year. In April, the meetings would start to plan out the next year’s reaping, but for now, Effie resigned herself to a lonely fall and a cold Capitol winter. 

She and Ella went on holiday to District 4 when the snow came, spending two weeks with the strong, exotic people whose customs seemed strange and obscure. 

Though, there was quite a bit of buzz over the resident victor of the Games, Finnick Odair. He was attractive, sharp, and cunning. But Effie couldn’t let herself be too excited. When Ella cornered him in a restaurant one evening, looking at him felt too much like staring into Kale’s eyes. She excused herself, going back to the hotel and waiting for Ella’s return until well past two-in-the-morning.

She was only required to make an appearance when the Victory Tour commenced in the Capitol, and thankfully wasn’t required to give any public interview or speeches. By the time April came, she was thoroughly healed, and her smile had been restored. No one would be the least bit suspicious of her. What a wonderful disguise she had created. It was ever so easy to pull off.

When she returned to 12 for the reaping the following year, Haymitch was no better off than he had been previously. The sight of his house gave her a strange feeling; it was unchanging. The brick had become weathered ages ago, and the scraggily bushes outside had long since died. The District 12 heat had choked the grass, leaving dirt and bare roots to line the walk, and the curtained windows hadn’t been scrubbed since heaven only knew when. The man inside had sentenced himself to solitary confinement in an ageless world, perhaps so that he himself might remain unchanged.

When he finally answered, he was at least dressed, and greeted her with a drunken kiss on the cheek. She wasn’t sure if she should be offended, if he was mocking her Capitol custom, or if he was just inebriated. She took the latter, and walked in silence with him to the square, shielding herself from him with her pink parasol. 

On the train again with two new tributes, Effie took a deep breath. One year had not been quite long enough. She only hoped the odds would change, something would give and they would have a win. Though, if she was honest, she wasn’t even sure she wanted even that.

At dinner, Haymitch was affable and relatively sober. She knew it was volatile, and that the eye of the storm was bound to pass sooner than later. Though, something in his mood had her hopes high for a better year than last.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skip time here, to the 71st Games. the next three chapters will be in Haymitch POV.

71st Games, Haymitch

-O-O-O-

He’d never actually watched a woman put her clothes on. He’d watched plenty take theirs off. Of course, they were mostly Capitol peep shows, and the women were terribly distorted. He supposed now was no different in that aspect, but the woman before him took great care in zipping her dress, and when she asked for help, he pretended not have heard her.

Lucilia huffed, struggling once more with the zipper. Finally, she gave up after tugging it most of the way up and pulled her stole over it.

He finished lacing his shoes and slipped past her for the door. Silently, he let the door close behind him, shuffling quickly out of the Capitol apartment building. The walls were painted vomit-pink and the lights were giving him a migraine. He would’ve never agreed to go to her apartment if staying at the Training Center hadn’t been out of the question.

He knew people gossiped about their tryst. And that’s all it really was. He knew she only batted those ugly purple eyelashes his way because of his Victors’ status, and seemed dangerous—whatever the hell that meant. He only agreed because he needed to.

Sometimes it felt like the only graces in this forsaken place were the women who practically threw themselves at anything that moved, and the light, slightly cooler summer air.

He walked himself back to the Training Center, relieved that Effie Trinket was no longer residing there. She’d received special permission to stay at her own home after Haymitch had vomited on some special pair of limited edition shoes last year.

In seven years, he’d ruined more outfits and disgusted more dates of Trinket’s than he could count. Still, he knew that the only comforting thing at 6am besides the cool porcelain of a toilet bowl against his cheek was Trinket’s fingers combing through his hair without hesitation that her hands might get dirty.

There had been a time or two when she’d been gentle, almost tender. He tried to pretend it didn’t happen. Only because it crept him out that he’d actually imagined what she’d look like without her getup caked on. And maybe it had never happened after all. He wasn’t lucid enough in those moments to tell.

They had a love-hate relationship. There was much more hate than love, and Haymitch was willing to bet they’d never admit to actually liking the other’s presence. It was merely tolerance.

In the penthouse, he had several drinks and watched thirty minutes of the night coverage of the games before Juni, their female tribute was hacked to ribbons by Johanna Mason’s axe.

That girl was vicious. He had to admit she had good strategy, but watching her made his stomach burn where the long, puckered scar ran along it. Midnight was approaching, but nonetheless he rose from the couch.

He stumbled from the building and hailed a taxi.

-O-O-O-

She answered the door timidly, a mug of tea in one hand, heels gone but otherwise still the caked-on powderpuff he usually saw. 

“Juni’s dead,” he said. He knew she didn’t watch the Games after hours. 

“Oh,” she spoke with a sigh. She looked down at her stocking feet. He noticed the pair of hose she’d chosen today were tinted pink with tiny pink glitter speckled over the length of her legs and feet. Her legs were slim and short, and he wondered exactly how much smaller her body was beneath her feathers and fur.

Unintentionally, they shared a apposite moment of silence before Haymitch spoke. 

“Yeah…well…I’ll…”

She seemed to snap back together, putting on her usual airs. “How rude of me! Please come in.”

“No, I’m just…” He pointed to the sidewalk behind him, already turning.

“Come in,” she offered, looking at him knowingly. “I might just have some red wine I can uncork for you.”

Effie Trinket’s house was not what he had expected, and a stark contrast to the putrid pink paradise he’d been in hours before. Her house was in a quiet, peaceful area of town. The outside was simple, classic, and quaint. Not what he’d been expecting at all. The inside was painted in warm colors, trimmed in dark woods. It reminded him a bit of the houses in the Village, but nicer, newer, and less dirty. Everything had a place here, and he’d probably eat off the floors if she wouldn’t scold him for it.

Without permission, he plopped onto the couch while she hurried around the kitchen, meeting him finally with two glasses of wine. He took one, and to her disgust, poured a bit of the white liquor from his flask into it.

“Gives it a little kick,” he explained, smirking. She rolled her eyes.

They drank silently. She had several candles lit around the room, giving the place a warm glow. Her fireplace wasn’t lit, but the gold that was laid into the mantle was illuminated by the candlelight. An ornate rug adorned the hardwood floor, her furniture upholstered in dark leather.

The television glowed with a news recap of the last hour of the Games, but she reached for the remote to switch it off before they said anything about Juni.

He heard her sniff, but didn’t dare look her way. This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t here, in her house, drinking her wine, after he’d just screwed one of her stupid Capitol co-workers.

His spine straightened and he leaned forward, ready to flee. But something kept him pinned to the couch. 

She sniffed again, and—dammit—he looked. She wiped at her eye with her slender, polished fingers. And then like a faucet, she shut herself off.

“I apologize,” she said. “I think I’m…I’m off to bed.” She rose from the couch and turned to face him. “You’re welcome to stay here,” she said, but this time it wasn’t an invitation. Now it was a request.

He didn’t exactly know why he agreed. But she left him in the living room with a stack of blankets and a cream-colored pillow, not before insisting that he not use the throw pillows on the couch. They were only decorative, she said. He huffed.

Alone, he left the candles burning to illuminate the room a bit. He watched the glint of his knife in the fire light. 

They were both so lonely. So terribly screwed up, at opposite ends of the screwed up spectrum. Perhaps that was why she’d asked him to stay and why he’d dumbly agreed. Because sleeping here, a stranger in an unfamiliar room with someone just down the hall, whom he merely tolerated, was better than sleeping alone with the threat of demons.

Thirty minutes later, still awake, he needed to piss.

He wandered down the great hallway, where Effie had disappeared. First he came to an empty bedroom, and it struck him that like himself, Effie had entirely no one. She’d never mentioned any family, and he knew for certain that she’d barely had boyfriends longer than a few weeks. Her shallow friends certainly didn’t count.

He pushed open the next door and almost took a step backwards, but froze.

Her bedroom. The walls were built of cherry wood, lined with shelves and shelves of books. He didn’t recognize many of the author’s names, but he could vaguely place some. Keats, Shakespeare, Poe, Austen. Dickenson, Hemmingway, and Fitzgerald. He hadn’t taken her for a reader. He didn’t really know what he took her for. He’d never thought much past her ugly dresses and clownish makeup, and assumed that’s where her depth stopped.

But here, at the door to her bedroom, he was proved wrong. 

She sat at a large oak vanity, removing pins from her hair.

Her hair. Her actual hair. 

It was blonde, and exquisite. Honey colored and golden. It reminded him of a time passed, of a girl he once knew but had been taken. It was enough for him to let out a sigh.

She spun, her hands still clasped at her crown, her lips parted in shock. A curl fell loose to her shoulder and he stepped forward on instinct.

Her eyes were crystal blue. He’d never noticed before. They were so immaculately clear that he could’ve read her entire past in them. 

No paint concealed her face now. He skin was fair and flawless, and he wondered why she would ever want to hide it. Her eyebrows were attractively arched, and matched her hair. Her lips were rosy and small, quite pert and full. Her cheeks took a natural glow, and her nose was practically perfect. 

“Effie,” he breathed.

“Go away,” she said quickly.

“You’re beautiful,” he blurted.

She faced her mirror again, and her reflection looked suddenly nervous and shameful. “Go away Haymitch.”

“I won’t,” he said.

“This isn’t proper.”

“Why do you wear all of that stuff when you’re…” 

“Please,” she said louder, demanding.

He didn’t move.  
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, but didn’t make to leave.

She sighed, continuing pulling out her pins.

He watched intensely as another curl fell. “Why do you hide yourself? Why didn’t you want me to see?”

He regretted leaving his flask in the living room when the words tumbled from his mouth.

She glanced sideways, not facing him or the mirror. When she spoke, her voice was thin. “Only because its completely inappropriate.”

“Only because?” he repeated, stepping closer. He pulled the wingback chair by her bookshelf closer to the vanity, plopping into it.

She turned to glare at him, taking liberty to make himself at home, in her bedroom no less.

She continued working, and then lifted a silver hairbrush to comb out the silky curls, looking nervous and fidgety the entire time.

“Do you remember your blue hat?”

He watched her reflection. Watched her eyes grow watery and glassy. She looked down. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“It was you. I remember. I knew it was you ever since I met you. You in the stands during my Games. You were wearing that big blue sunhat…” He trailed off now, looking away. “My girl had given me a ribbon as a token…It matched the ribbon on your hat.”

She turned to him. It wasn’t anxiety at his presence that surfaced in her eyes anymore. It was fear, and it was crumbling fast.

She turned back to her vanity, and covered her face with her hands. He watched a silent tear drip onto the wood.

Seconds later, another followed.

He thought he should leave, and made to rise. But her voice made him freeze.

“I hate it,” she said softly. “I hate this.”

He already had his back to her, but glanced down over his shoulder at her petite form bent forward in her chair.

“Welcome to the club, princess.”


End file.
